Puppy Video!

Thought you might like to see feeding time. The sound on my computer doesn't work so I've tried to keep the commentary to a minimum.

The puppies are ten days old now and should be opening their eyes soon. It usually takes them a few days to focus properly but I guess once they can walk too it will be like having six toddlers, when eyes in the backs of heads will be desperately needed.

Pass The Cream Cake

I made this cake on Sunday afternoon. You're welcome to a piece if you like strawberries and cream.



It's clipping day at Jigsaw farm. The strapping shearer arrived at 7.30am, shearing equipment gleaming and raring to go in the back of a pickup. The Farmer and I brought the sheep in last night, the first 200 ready for a trip to the salon, lambs in tow. Most of them look bedraggled, looking forward to shedding the overgrown mass of devastation on their backs. The younger sheep stand at the gate, eyes transfixed as John reaches for his shearers, turns round to face them and aptly says, "here's Johnny". We make no money from the shearing these days. The sheep have to be clipped to stop fleas, maggots and other revolting creatures bedding in, apart from which, at this time of year, who wants to walk around with a woolly jacket on. We get very little for the wool, have to pay the shearer and our assistant and of course we take no money for ourselves. For the Farmer, it's back breaking work but, as always, he enjoys it. Unlike the sheep.

Dutiful Woman

Most of us have one room in which we keep tidy, away from the children and preferably animal free. For me, it's the dining room. Renovated last November, and, by my standards, kept clean. And then, if you're like me, all the other rooms in the house have something in them that we know doesn't really belong. For example, in every room in this house apart from the dining room, a Bratz doll, without feet, either lies on the floor, on a table or on something. Amy has a habit of carrying dolls with her to the bathroom, some end up in the bath, some make it to the cistern and others just get left on the floor. I had to remove one from the shower cubicle this morning, didn't fancy a shower with Jasmine.

I find I can't keep up with the housework. Apart from finding it totally boring and very often pointless, I simply haven't got time to hoover 29 stairs and mop a kitchen floor every day, which believe you me, could do with being done. I would love to have a cleaner, but then I would probably feel guilty, not to mention skint. I even give Amy pocket money to tidy her room. Talk about bribery and corruption! She has far too many dolls, but she seems to play with them all, leaving most of them lying around the house. Just wondered, whilst I sit thinking about my book (I know, I know), how many rooms do you keep tidy in your house; child free, animal free, for adults only etc? And if the answer to that is none, does anyone fancy sharing a cleaner?

A couple of photographs taken this morning; Sparky having a well deserved treat and the puppies, huddled together in mummy's absence.

The World Turns

Having a sentimental personality I often reflect on life, become nostalgic, think about other paths I may have taken. Of course, the path on which I found myself was by far the right one and has proved to be so as I continue my journey. But before I moved to Northumberland, I was a townie, born and bred amongst town-folk with shops, bars and restaurants on my doorstep. It was a life quite different to the one I live now. My nearest bank is 20 miles away, as is my favourite supermarket. But when I look back on how my life was pre-farm, I realise that I was just experiencing another way of existence. I was brought up as a townie, yet I chose to be a country-bumpkin; a way of life I now realise was my destiny. It all sounds a bit sugar-coated I know, but my dewy-eyed take on life has created me. It has made me what I am today, with my sentimental character and pillow-soft heart. I sometimes read other's blogs and feel so much emotion at their words that I become wrapped up in their troubles or filled with glee at their good fortune.


When I get these waves of thoughts, taking me back to a time which set me on the road to finding this country way of life, I realise how important my roots really are. But what I did not realise was that inside this street-wise-townie-cum-soft-centred-country-bumpkin, I have been given a responsibility that out weighs (in my book) any other born to man; parenthood. My sentimental moments of nostalgia have taught me that I have the ability to nurture a life and guide it to it's own path of destiny. That, to me, is the most incredible gift I could receive; it makes me feel whole; it gives my life a purpose and my own path a reason.

So why, if I am able to feel such wonder in my life, can't every one be blessed with this immense feeling of love, this powerful emotion that can match no other? Why do we continually hear on the news about parents who have once more neglected their child, beaten and abused them, sometimes even killed them? I am not so naive that I do not know it happens on every door step but my rose-tinted glasses want so much to shelter these children, make them realise that their lives are just like mine and yours, if only they were given a chance.

The Love of Farming

As I thought the puppies would have been born some time this week, I decided to leave the whole week free (apart from a hair appointment on Wednesday). There is a big star on Wednesday 24th June which is the day we reckoned Sparky would give birth. Of course she didn't and surprised us by being four days earlier. Having never bred a dog before, we could be forgiven for being a little unsure, and let's face it, babies rarely come on time. Amy was three weeks early. But the puppies seem to be doing well and Sparky has made a perfect mother. She won't leave them for more than a few minutes to nip outside for the toilet; meanwhile, all six bundles of furry looking guinea pigs huddle together and wait for tea-t time. Both the Farmer and I look on at our little extended family and smile, our heads shake and the Farmer says, "did you ever believe it?" It really is a wonderful sight to see and one I have waited all my life to witness. Amy of course, has given each one a name, already chosen the one we will keep and likes to kneel down in front of the pen, her hand poking through the bars and a little whisper saying, "I love the pups, mum, can we keep them all?"

The one with the biggest white collar is Bonnie (the pup we're keeping).




*********

The two orphaned lambs which still feed from a Shepherdess bucket have been reduced to two meals a day from the three they have been used to. Between 11.30am and 12.30pm, the noise is almost unbearable. They have grown immensely and are looking really healthy. We feel quite pleased with ourselves that they have done so well. It isn't always the case with orphaned lambs due to the lack of colostrum they consume, needed and supplied by the mother. We are still bottle feeding Charlie and again, he looks great.

We've arrived into silage season now where fields of purpose kept grasses are cut and stored in bales to be used as animal feed, mainly for sheep and cattle, or haylage for horses. The Farmer gets together with neighbouring farms and is known as "chief wrapper". His job is to wrap specialised polythene around the bales to keep the moisture in, thus protecting them from the elements. Some farms sell their silage or haylage but we keep most of ours to feed the sheep in the winter. It's quite a busy few weeks and means I get left in charge of the farm. In other words, I get the house to myself all day, get to play with the puppies on my own and can chill out to my heart's content. That's in between writing a book, doing the housework (whatever that is) and seeing to the animals. And then we move into harvest which for me means making up flasks, preparing bait and zipping around the fields on a quad bike to feed my hungry Farmer. Arrhhh, the life.....

Proud Auntie Molly

Six Little Bundles of Joy

Yesterday, Saturday 20th June, Sparky became the proud mum of six gorgeous puppies. I can't believe it! The first pup was born at 6.30am and the last one arrived at 11am. Four girls, two boys, all black and white and all completely, utterly and cute-i-liciously GORGEOUS! Amy described them beautifully, "they look like little guinea pigs, about the same size". All scrambling for their next meal while Sparky takes it all in her stride. She leaves the pen for a quick wee then heads straight back to bedlam, nurturing and protecting her new family. I'll leave you with a couple of pictures. No doubt, the first of many..!

Another Extract for you

To those who are new to my blog, occasionally I post an extract from my work-in-progress. I welcome all feedback, however good or bad it may be (however, if it's really bad I'd welcome an email instead!!). These are just draft extracts and haven't been through the editing process as yet. The book is fiction, a story about a medium, her life, loves and work.

It was 11.30. The night was drawing to a close as I continued to contemplate my life. I could feel no spirit presence, just a hole in the fabric of life. I was lonely. Once more alone with my thoughts. I was not sure this was a place I wanted to be. Yet I had been here so many times before, so desperately trying to ignore the sadness that I always felt when I sat alone late at night. A part of me hated it. Another part of me knew no different. I had spent nearly twenty years living alone, almost thirteen of them wondering about my mother, about her discovery into another world. She had so seldom visited me. To be here, in this place with only myself to think about was proving difficult since I had met Marcus. Spending nights with him had given my life a new perspective. When I was once more alone I felt abandoned. The way I felt when my mother passed over.

I knew she loved me; I was a child adored by many, my mother being the love of my life. It wasn’t as if I needed her now, but I needed to remember her. Photographs were all I had, memories were beginning to fade.

I decided to sit in the reading room, not because I wanted spirit to join me, but because it was such a tranquil place, a place where dawn did not break and night did not end. A place of peace when I was feeling melancholy. A place of explanation when my mind raced with thoughts. I opened the door, the hinges creaked. The dim light from the hallway guided me into the room leaving me standing by the small table and chairs. The velvet curtains were closed; I had made a point of closing them earlier in the evening. I went over to the arm chair opposite the book shelf, a chair which had been left in the house by whoever lived there before me. Resting myself upon its leather cushion, I sighed. Comfort overwhelmed me, I so loved being in that room. The sorrow I had felt earlier in the day at Lucia’s funeral seemed to lift, a light entered my heart, flooding all images of sadness away to a forgotten dimension. I wanted to remember my past. I ached to learn more about myself, about my reasons for living at Rosehill. How, at aged 43, had I become so lonely? Why had I never accepted a marriage proposal, loved the way I so wished to, had a child even? Did I regret my life so far? Did I feel so sad towards my own self that I wanted to go back and change what I had already experienced? But it was too late. Surely, I couldn’t revisit my past without feeling regret. When I had found Rosehill I thought I had found my life. I thought I was complete. The jigsaw I had been trying to accomplish was within my reach and surely I was able to tidy it up, put it away and start living the life I had always wanted to live.

The only problem was someone had taken away my hopes and dreams. Someone I could no longer connect with. Yet someone I loved. And the most important aspect of it all was I did not know who that person was. I stared through the darkness. Shadows ached for my attention, searching for a place to rest. I could feel my body seizing, my limbs rigid, my mind knowing that another soul now stood within my space. The room remained in darkness, a glimmer of light trying obligingly to filter in. The spirit which now hovered before me was male. My first suspicion of it being Lucia was dashed when I realised the aroma of aftershave invading my senses. The smell was familiar, not one I had experienced often but one I had only recently discovered. Thoughts were being impressed upon me, the name of Harold was strong. The shadows I had witnessed a few minutes before had faded yet I could sense the manifestation of a spirit, a man presenting before me. I could not see his face but I felt love; an overpowering sense of adoration pouring from the mysterious soul. I called out, requesting that spirit moved an object, knocked on the table, touched me. Somehow, I knew I was safe. I knew this was a visiting soul, yet one that seemed familiar with the surroundings of Rosehill. Being in the reading room with this spirit was a comforting feeling, as though we were meant to be there. There was a bond between us; not just a feeling of being together but something stronger, like the feeling between brother and sister, parents and offspring. Spirit moved passed me, making its way to the opposite side of the room, the wall where my book shelf stood, hiding the secret that Jane had tried to unveil.

The manifested soul faced the wall. Within seconds it turned around to face me and for a very brief moment I saw a face; that of Harold Sharpe. Somewhat taken aback, I stood from my chair, asking spirit to communicate with me, tell me why it surrounded me with love. But no sooner had the words left my mouth, spirit began to fade into the wall, as though walking through to the space of which I had recently learnt existed behind the reading room. My mind was overwhelmed with racing thoughts; had this indeed been Harold Sharpe telling me he was buried behind the bricks of the reading room; had this been what the spirit of Jane was so keen to have me understand. And was William Sharpe a murderer.

Home-Schooling

It isn't something I have ever seriously considered but I have discussed it several times with blogging buddies and friends from home. I just wonder if all parents contemplate the idea of providing home-schooling for their child. In some cases it has worked and been a resounding success. In others, it has isolated the child from being with peers and experiencing inclusion in a school. Some children can thrive on a constant one-to-one, whereas others need to learn independence from an early age. When Amy first started school it was something I never thought about. I would never be able to home-school myself for my academic skills leave a lot to be desired but for parents of whom education comes easy I would imagine it wouldn't be quite so difficult to educate their child at home. Amy has always thrived at the first school she has attended since age 5; good staff, small class numbers and an excellent support worker have obviously mattered considerably in her well being, thus enabling her to do well and feel included in general class activities. She has made many friends over the years and seems to be a popular member of the school. She leaves in July and will start middle school in September, a transition that, at the moment, does not seem to faze her. I have every confidence in her new school, apart from the fact that her support worker will continue on with her to middle school, the staff at the new school seem to be going out of their way to ensure she experiences a comfortable and stress free move into the next four years of education.

The support from a mainstream educational environment has without doubt made me realise that Amy could, and probably would, fall way behind should she be home-schooled. Not only would she suffer academically, but her social skills would be so far removed from those of a child her own age, I would be afraid she could find adolescence and adulthood even more challenging than she would otherwise. Amy copies her peers. She has done this for many years, it is her way to learn how to communicate with the children she usually spends time with. She would still copy should she be home-schooled, but who? Her tutor? Me? I have always liked the thought of Amy being with other children. She has no brothers or sisters and seldom sees friends outside school. Our rural way of life is something she is used to however, and the current six hours a day she spends at school, Monday to Friday, have been a huge benefit to a child who still learns from others. I guess I would say to the person who asks what I think about home-schooling, that they should consider the needs of the individual child; but, it may be difficult for the child to become integrated into the education system if that child has become used to a constant one to one learning foundation. I know very little about home-schooling and even though, as stressed here, I would never consider it for Amy at this stage in her life, I am interested to learn and know more about it from anyone who does home-school their child; how they find it affects the child - in a positive or negative way; if there are activities in which the child takes part outside home-school hours. And how difficult or easy it is to motivate a child to do school work, in a home environment.

Words & Pictures

"Come on, give us a cuddle."





Whistle through the Mist





A Bird's Eye View




Pretty in Pink

Large Bra Needed

Pregnancy seems to have calmed Sparky down considerably. She has teats hanging like a few sets of udders and she's walking so much slower than usual. The extra weight has obviously had an impact on her energy levels and a brisk walk twice a day seems to satisfy her need for exercise. She gets lots of extra cuddles and we're trying hard not to leave Molly out. Both dogs are terribly jealous when the other receives attention, but we've also noticed that typical Molly has sussed something is different; she hasn't encouraged Sparky to play-fight the way they love to do on the grass and she keeps away from Sparky when there's food on the go. The Farmer had to separate them last week after Molly decided Sparky's food looked more appetising. But even though both dogs can hold their own, it's become apparent that Sparky is currently top dog. The pair will be separated once the puppies arrive and we will gradually introduce Molly to our four new additions, perhaps when Sparky is out of the way!

Sparky is very much Amy's dog. The Farmer and I can summon her until we're blue in the face yet Amy will shout, "Sparky!" and the dog will be by her side in a whisker. Those two have an incredible bond. We're keeping Sparky on the lead at the moment during her walks but yesterday I had to smile when I bravely unhooked her and watched as she toddled behind Amy, trying to keep up with the child on her scooter. Usually, we end up shouting for Sparky to come back from the other side of a field to where she's confidentally buggered off! We're very much looking forward to the puppies, I told you a while ago that Amy has already named the one we will keep; the name has changed. I thought it might and I'm glad it has! The new name and one I am determined will stick is "Bonnie". We chose it together whilst in Scotland the other week. Another two weeks to go and my camera will be steaming at the button.

Alternative Wiring

I realise that the past few months have been kind to me in the world of blogging and I have been fortunate enough to make many new friends and acquaintances. A comment left on a recent post I published also made me realise that some of my newer readers (and those I have known for some time) may like to know a little more about Amy, my 9 year old daughter who is autistic. I could talk all day about Amy, probably bore you to tears with information you would find hard to digest. So I shall make this post as brief as possible and hope, by the end of it, you have been introduced to a beautiful, caring and funny young lady of whom is no less than my whole life.

Amy was diagnosed with autism when she was 3 years old, it took the experts and professionals 18 months to reach the diagnosis. When I got the letter I was relieved.  I didn't grieve.  I didn't get upset.  I rang all the professionals and began the process of getting support, no less than my daughter deserved. I was told by the consultant who had come to this conclusion that she would "never play imaginatively", she would "never make choices" and she would "never make eye contact". An inability to make choices is probably the most accurate of these three statements but since the age of five, she has played beautifully and I can't recall her ever not being able to make eye contact. She struggles to listen and understand, even though her reading and writing are advanced for her age. She fails with social skills, her voice is loud and monotone and she finds it easier to communicate and play with children much younger. I spend my life telling her to stop shouting, stop interrupting and calm down; but that's Amy. It's what she does. She takes everything literally; it's raining cats and dogs, you're as daft as a brush, ants is ya pants, all these sayings and a million more mean exactly what they say to Amy. The thought of having ants in ya pants is, as you can imagine, hideous. Raining cats and dogs? How? Brushes are daft? But they're full of bristles, does that mean they're funny?  You wouldn't say "that view (or whatever) is to die for" in front of Amy, or "I'm so hungry, I could eat a horse".  Her interpretation would be somewhat different from yours.

She attends a village school of which she leaves in July to start four years of the next stage at middle school. None of us have any idea of what will happen. Not the teachers, professionals and not even me. In four years time who knows where Amy might end up. Her life is so unpredictable, yet she thrives on routine at the same time. She still has to be the one to switch the telly off; to pull the plug out of the bath; to switch the landing lamp on at night. If I do any of these things (plus a million others) she becomes incredibly frustrated and has a major meltdown. Over the years we have discovered that it's easier to just let her get on with it. She lives her life in a bubble. She can see the world, she just can't connect with it. But like I say, that's Amy, and we wouldn't have her any other way. Autism is a wonderful gift which contains a little extra wrapper. Think of it as a pass the parcel; the frustration you would feel if you couldn't get to the present beneath all the fancy wrapping paper. That's how Amy feels. And that's autism for ya. But life isn't hard; we don't despair at every corner.  We simply get by, looking forward to the next day and thanking our lucky stars that we are fit and healthy.  I've never had a child without autism so I don't know any different.  I used to compare Amy to other children once but not anymore.  What we have in our lives is more than we could ever have wished for, and that is the ability to love a child unconditionally.

Clever Sponges

Ignore the bad, reward the good. That's what I was always taught when Amy was little and it's what I've more or less stuck to ever since. It's sometimes hard of course to ignore the bad if it's really, really bad. And especially if lack of manners is an underlying factor of bad behaviour. For example, whilst in Scotland the other week, we arrived back at the cottage after a lovely morning in Killin. Amy's attitude was far from desirable, so I had words and asked her where her manners were. "I think I left them in Killin," she replied. "Well you'd better go back and find them," I said, turning away and going into the cottage. Whilst making my way to the sitting room, I realised Amy hadn't followed me and so I went back outside to find her. She was nowhere to be seen. I searched all round the cottage. Nothing. I shouted on several occasions, each time a little louder than the last. Nothing. I went back into the cottage and shouted upstairs. Nothing. I couldn't make my mind up whether to be cross or worried. So I became both. After about ten minutes of doing the Okey Cokey, I heard the patter of footsteps on the stones outside the front door. "Where have you been?" I scolded. "I went to Killin to get my manners," came the reply. "And have you found them?" I asked. "Yes, thank you, mummy," she answered. Of course she hadn't been to Killin and I never got to the bottom of where she had been but she was very out of breath.

I have become laid back in my approach and come to realise over the years that if Amy misbehaves it's usually because she's either a) frustrated or b) she doesn't understand something. Amy has the added frustration of living in her own world where life remains slightly different from how we would normally know it. I took her to McDonald's on Sunday, a little treat for the good behaviour she had portrayed throughout the week. She still uses echolalia in her thought and speech, repeating what she may have heard on the television or from hearing someone talking either at school or at home. She can recite an advert from the TV, almost word for word, it's as though her brain soaks up the voices like a tape recorder. As we sat in the car park at McDonald's eating Big Macs and Quarter Pounders, she suddenly looked at my Big Mac and asked "there's not only one Big Mac, is there?" I looked at her.

She has heard or perhaps read somewhere that "there is only one Big Mac". An advert. There is of course, only one Big Mac. To you and me. But to Amy, how can there be? What rubbish do these people tell us, lol! I laughed as a seagull landed on the roof of the car and probably released its load in spectacular fashion. "No, of course there isn't, sweetheart," I said. And still, I wasn't sure.

Corrupt System

I waited in anticipation to watch the BBC's Question Time on Thursday night, one of my favourite programs of the week. I love listening to the audience's views about politicians, the constant slanting of our system and how every one else can do a better job. But my wait was met with disappointment as the panel was introduced and there were no interesting MP's in the stocks. Fiona Phillips tried her best to give a journalistic opinion but failed miserably in her attempt to keep me hooked. Paddy Ashdown could have been interesting, had he not attended, and Baroness Royall just mesmerised me with her wild red locks. In fact, I switched off at 11pm feeling totally cheated out of what could have been a sensationally scandalous debate involving a group of fraudsters trying frantically to hold on to the public trust on voting day. Of course, at this time the news is full of politics, and one way or another a change will have to be made. I don't know how the change will happen, or even if the country are capable of accepting it. But when Scotland Yard have confirmed it "highly unlikely" that the criminal MP's will be charged with stealing our money, what kind of message does that give to others?

Where I grew up in Manchester, the council was continuously Labour. It seemed no matter how one voted, Labour were always guaranteed to get in victoriously. The days of a Tory government still saw local residences supporting 'Vote Labour' stickers in the windows. As soon as I turned 18 I couldn't wait for election day when I galloped down to the Polling Station. How grown up and responsible I felt as I walked through the door of my old primary school. Labour still got in. And I always remember my dad's face on Tony Blair's day of victory in 1997. He had a large whisky that night. To drown his sorrows.

Posh Dog

The inevitable happened; Molly went to the poodle parlour. The vets to be precise, one of their veterinary nurses who does a little sideline of dog grooming. Our rough black and white collie has been trailing round matted fur and sticky-bobs and was beginning to look like an old farmer. At only five however, I was determined to tidy her up and have her back to being top dog. I left her at the vets at 9am, feeling like a mummy on the first day of school. Molly looked at me with the cutest face, the saddest eyes and ears pinned back so far to her head that she could have been wearing one of Amy's headbands. The curlers came out and the scissors went to work. She was bathed properly all over, instead of just having the usual badger poo removed and I swear she's even lost weight during the process. When I collected her, she looked slim. All the matted fur had gone, the ears were once more on alert and the eyes had a refreshing twinkle about them, so glad she was to see me.



I have a sound problem with my computer. For some very strange reason the sound device is no longer installed. I haven't touched anything, fiddled or pressed a button that I perhaps shouldn't have. It worked fine on Tuesday when I spoke to my sister on Skype yet on Wednesday it decides to tell me I have no sound. I've tried every which way I can to fix it. Being extremely nontechnical it's now beaten me. I'm baffled. I'm sick of looking at the little speaker symbol with a red cross in the bottom corner of my screen. I use Vista which I've found rather good up until now. I think I've asked just about everybody to help me. Except you...... Please.... Anyone.....

A Little Cloud

Bits of pastel blue peep through a white gathering of fluffy cotton wool. Sheep breathe a sigh of relief whilst two collies no longer need to escape to the coolness of tiles beneath. The Farmer whistles his way to the tractor, glad of a shady day, his obsession with the greenhouse thermometer having subsided. I used to sit for hours in the sun. I used to smother myself in oil and encourage the mother of all tans. I would holiday in the hottest countries, during the hottest time of year, unfazed by the heat and the dangers of the great ball of fire behind the fluffy cotton wool. I now find myself sat in the shade. Or in the house if it's really hot. I cannot stand to feel such intense heat upon my skin, or to think I may be exposing myself to something that is way beyond any control.

My dad used to love the sun. He would lie on his sun lounger in the garden and simply fall asleep. His face would be the shade of a beetroot and his body would be tanned, in a very short space of time. He would walk along the beach at Bamburgh and by the time he arrived back at the cottage, one could be forgiven for thinking he had spent two weeks in the Caribbean. He would have been 66 last Friday, 29th May. But I still think of him as being 58. I still see him as the beautiful, tanned figure of a man, gentle and sophisticated, smiling and proud. I get my olive skin from him. Not sure where my milk bottle legs come from though!

The smallest of the orphaned lambs didn't make it. Little Chip, named by Amy, lost his battle with life and passed over to his new home last week. He was tiny, no matter how much he drank, he never seemed to put any weight on even though his twin brother was, and still is, the largest of the orphans. Poor fella, we tried our best but sometimes it just isn't enough. God bless Little Chip.